Old fate slowly builds
her mute countenance
What a bird shrieks here
springs there like a gasp of warning
from a soothsayer’s hard mouth.

Destiny casts
its nightly spell.
Still to come, it does not reach out,
it remains
a phantom
floating in its heavenly course.


Cunning, ambitious, powerful.

Evil?

Lord Voldemort had never thought of himself as evil, per se. He had thought of himself as cunning, as ambitious, as powerful, as a lot of other adjectives, but never as 'evil.'

Good and evil were not terms the Dark Lord could understand, or wished to understand. To him, neither mattered or could matter. It was ambition that drove him, not ambition to be known or feared or have, but ambition to known and feared and have. Have everything. The power and means to buy [whatever he wanted to, including people], the power and means to control [whatever he wanted to, including nature] and the power and means to sell [whatever he wanted to, including his soul].

And that, of course, made the prophecies all the more dangerous.

Nip the evil in the bud. He thought along the lines of nip the threat at stage one, but the thought process was the same: stamp out the flame, before it turned into a fire. He had thought, at one time, of that as an easy task. But time had proved things to be otherwise, even if he could never have admitted it in front of anyone.

It wasn't Severus's information that made him anxious. The Potters and their child, he could take care of in a matter of seconds. Of course, he had plans to make first. He had no thought of leaving anything, even the most minor detail, to chance. And there was Severus's wish for the boy's mother to be left alive and intact, if possible.

He had a mind to reward Severus, and he felt he could. Probably should. Leave the woman alive. Could he separate her from the kid, beforehand? He had seen more than one mother attempt to save her child or children.

But, of course, the more he thought of the Potters, the more he thought of that night years ago.

He had never mentioned that first prophecy to anyone, not even to the death-eaters he most trusted. It had stuck, in some depth of his heart, like an annoying needle, and there had been nothing he could do - at least nothing tangible he could do - about it. So he had looked for his leads, and remained quiet about it. Letting others know your weaknesses, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, could never be a good idea.

That night. It had been the first and last time he had seen the girl. She had been weak and near death, and her face had been gaunt, though still handsome. Large dark eyes, oriental, mysterious, stared out of it in a stubborn will to live, refusing to die; and in a tough sort of pride, refusing to shed tears. He hadn't liked the look of her, insolent, too-knowing, and staring at him as he killed the five men in the pub [he had still operated alone, at that time. In disguise, but alone] and, for good measure, the bartender.

She didn't have a wand and, not fearing retaliation from her, he had left her for the last. But he never got to kill her.

She had made the prophecy just as he raised his wand.

He could tell a real prophecy from a fake, by then. But, even if he hadn't been able to, he'd have doubted she had done it to stall for time, because the trance seemed to take something vital from her, and she had collapsed and closed her eyes the moment she had stopped speaking. He hadn't been shaken by the threat. More by the fact that he didn't know the source of this new threat. And might never.

In retrospect, he felt he ought to have at least checked if she had lived or died. But he hadn't. He had just drawn himself up to his full height and left in a swirl of black hood-and-cloak. And, in some small measure, he had almost come close to regretting that decision, once or twice. He had never been able to trace her, and he had a good idea she had died that night. Despite the stubborn look in her eyes, she hadn't had enough strength to live on for long, even before she had fallen to the floor in a motionless heap.

But he didn't regret his decision, any more.

"Yaxley, are you sure?" The red gaze, calm though he did not feel calm, fixed itself on the death-eater standing in the room. If this could be a true lead, if he could just know the source of his threat..

"You have my word, my lord."

The Dark Lord rose to his feet. "Very well, then," he said. "Let us pay this man a visit."



Reference:

[] "Old fate slowly builds -" From the poem Behind the Blameless Trees, by Rainer Maria Rilke.